Blood Covenent, page 8
May 2, 1992
Yevgeny Yarovitsin sat quietly in one of the sidewalk cafes along the Jardin Anglais overlooking Lake Geneva. He sipped hisespresso and readThe New York Times European Edition. He settled back against the wrought-iron chair enjoying theQuai du Mont Blanc across the harbor.
A young woman jogged down the waterfront, hauling along an overgrown poodle. Two retired American tourists took in the breath-taking scenery and snapped photos using their Nikon cameras. They probably lived somewhere without mountains or lakes, like Iowa. One of the many tour boat operators checked over his craft to ensure it was ready for the next harbor tour.
Yevgeny watched and waited. He wore clothing general enough to brand him French, British, Belgian, or even Swiss. There was nothing flamboyant about his appearance: a simple, open collar pullover, dark tan Dockers, and simple slip-on shoes. He appeared every bit the businessman taking a morning off and enjoying the spring sunshine. The comforting weight of a new Glock 17 hung under his armpit.
Yevgeny’s appointment appeared at one end of a half-moon circle-shaped garden framed by theJet D’Eau —a spectacular one-hundred-forty-meter waterspout—and Mont Blanc’s snow-capped shoulders. The customary bodyguards fanned out across the garden, and Yevgeny presumed two more bracketed his back as well.
He lifted his coffee cup, focusing beyond his appointment to one of the larger boats in the harbor. Somewhere beyond the scale of his vision lay a sniper with a Remington 700 chambered in 8mm Remington Magnum and a forty-power Leupold scope. He remained seated and watched his appointment approach.
Known in the late seventies and early eighties as theTerror of Tehran , Michael Rehazi strode purposely across the terrace. He benefited from a Princeton education (compliments of the late Shah of Iran), an intelligence background (compliments of the Israeli MOSSAD), and a religious banner (compliments of the Iran’s current oligarchy composed of Mullahs and clerics).
Rehazi kept the firing squads working during Kohmeni’s early days. He salvaged what he could from the Shah’s dreaded SAVAK and realized quickly that those with a Western education—or any education—were prime targets for the clerical purge. The very real dangers of returning to the thirteenth century and all its attendant benefits of plague and poverty seemed quite likely.
The firing squads were replaced by the Iran/Iraq war, where modern artillery and armor were overwhelmed by human wave attacks. An entire generation was shoveled mercilessly into the grinding maw of modern military arms. Back and forth, they battled over a useless piece of real-estate call theShatt al Arab . The swamps swallowed thousands and the killing simply continued.
Rehazi culled what he could from the madness. He plundered engineers, biologists, and physicians from the press gangs. His efforts were pitiful. He saved a handful and enlisted them into his own terror branch. The choices were stark and simple: work for him on the possibility of something better emerging after the cleric’s time, or become another face in the human waves sweeping towards Iraq and her Soviet armory.
There was no altruism regarding Rehazi’s decision. He knew someday the war with Iraq would end, and once again, Iran would focus its attentions on its true enemies: America and Russia. Since America’s modest war against Iraq last year, there was a quiet acceptance throughout the religious oligarchy to prepare for the day when American planes and missiles would threaten the skies over Iran. The Shah’s dream of rebuilding the Persian Empire had never died. Instead of the royal opulence accompanying the Peacock Throne, the dream now wore theIman’s black garb and turban.
Yevgeny folded his newspaper and signaled a hovering waiter for a refill of his coffee. He cared nothing for dietary restrictions or false humility. He had read Rehazi’s KGB dossier several times. The man had few scruples and no morals. He was loyal to himself, and whatever it took to keep his sorry head atop his shoulders. Rehazi embraced a remarkable ethical flexibility.
He set his newspaper to one side, sensing the Glock against his ribcage. He did not bother to stand. Ragheads like Rehazi might make the West grovel and wage war so the seemingly infinite oil supply could continue to flow. Russia had her own reserves sufficient for a long time. There was always the possibility of having to fight these ragheads someday in the future.
Rehazi’s bodyguards formed a box focused on Yevgeny’s table. They arranged themselves constantly, scanning for Russian’s overwatch.
Rehazi settled into a chair. He wore a Western-style business suit with a light blue and muted red tie. He looked every bit the part of a right wing conservative running for Congress. His eyes never left Yevgeny’s as he folded his hands before him and waited.
“You come with quite a retinue,” observed Yevgeny.
Rehazi shrugged. “We are tourists.”
“I’m sure the Swiss will understand.”
“With diplomatic passports,” added Rehazi.
“Of course.”
“It is rumored you have merchandise for sale. Trinkets from your former employers.”
Yevgeny nodded.
Rehazi examined the man sitting across the table. Yevgeny had little love for the Persian, nor was there any flicker of trust. Smalltalk and prattle were not going to come from the disaffected Russian. Indeed, the Soviet Empire was dying. The Red Army was retreating from Eastern Europe. The Berlin wall shattered under the American hammer of freedom and promised prosperity. November 9, 1991, the day when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics dissolved, would blaze as one of those dates when history overran events and the world changed again.
“Very well. What do you have?”
“It depends,” replied the Russian. “What is your target?”
Rehazi considered the question. “America and Israel, perhaps, Iraq, but the Americans have rendered them rather toothless for the moment.”
The Russian grunted and shifted his weight. “That’s all?”
“What does it matter to you?” snarled Rehazi.
The Russian shrugged and said, “Because I am selling prepositioned nuclear weapons.”
Rehazi blinked. Something seemed wrong about this, but he waited for the explanation. “Prepositioned?”
Yevgeny looked around. “Wonderful day—don’t you think?”
Rehazi nodded slowly.
“You seemed puzzled by the concept,” suggested Yevgeny.
“Yes, you could say that. I understood you were selling nukes. I don’t understand ‘prepositioned.’”
“Let me tell you a story. We Russians have always loved telling stories.” His lips split into a macabre grin. “I think it will help you understand.”
“Go on.”
“Over a decade ago, my former employer commissioned the creation of a man portable bomb. You have to understand, these things are heavy.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you any idea what that means?”
“Suitcase bombs?” Rehazi guessed.
The Russian nodded slowly. “A crude and somewhat inaccurate description, but one that will suffice. Now, you need to make distinction between my former employer and my former country. You see, the two were never exactly the same.”
Yevgeny looked around the lakefront, considering what he would ask for, and knowing that one of these weapons resided inside Tehran.
“What remains of my former country made a deal with the West to dismantle most of its nuclear arsenal. A foolish concept at best.” His eyes came back to rest on Rehazi’s face. The unspoken distrust bounced quietly between the two of them.
“The advent of Ronald Reagan meant two things to us: One, the days of a weakened American military were over. He pledged to rebuild America’s military muscle. What we didn’t understand was that he intended to bankrupt us in the process. They hardly cared whether we stole their technology. They simplyknew we didn’t have the industrial base to mass produce as they do.
“The other grows from the first. We wasted the Red Army in Afghanistan, and our inability to challenge the American missile shield truly destabilized us. My masters decided to bypass all those impediments.
“We acknowledged that we could not stop the Reagan buildup. No matter how many peace marches we organized in Europe, or how much money we poured into their opposition parties, Reagan and Thatcher were determined to end the Warsaw Pact, so we created an alternative to guns, tanks, and planes. Do you begin to see?”
Rehazi bobbed his head slightly. His eyes blazed with the possibilities, but he remained silent. There was something else here, something the Russian had kept close to his vest.
“Yes, I see you begin to understand,” Yevgeny chuckled. He decided he would place a premium on weapons in the United States. “They gave me the job of getting these weapons out of Russia and next to their intended targets. Think about that,” his voice oozed.
Rehazi became motionless as the words planted images in his mind. The Russians would fear a NATO response in Western Europe. NATO could produce a spirited defense with the ninety or so Western divisions scattered across the West German plain and stall a Soviet steamroller, but eventually the British and Americans would resupply and reinforce Europe with fresh troops. What would happen if the air bridge from America to Europe broke down?
Soviet planners would target the strongest two NATO members—America and Britain. George Bush had used civilian and military aircraft to ferry troops and material across the Atlantic during the Gulf War. Airports! Of course, the Russians would target major airports in both countries. A shoulder-launched SAM missile was largely symbolic, but several well placed nuclear bombs could disrupt the whole thing.
“Yes, I think you’ve grasped the truth,” continued the soothing Russian voice. “These weapons are already in place. They have traveled through American ports of entry, under their many radar and satellite nets. They are simple, crude weapons with a two to three kiloton yield. Properly placed, they can break any country for a while. Used judiciously—” He spread his hands as his voice trailed off.
“They exist. I know, I put them there. My old enemy, your new enemy—your Great Satan,” he laughed again. “The time delay is long enough to drive away and be out of range. You need not find martyrs. I always thought people willing to kill themselves a bit unsavory, but to each his own.”
Rehazi shrugged. Martyrs were simply another tool—no more, no less. “I suppose the price is considerable.”
“A bargain, Rehazi,” replied the Russian.
Rehazi wondered what a bargain might be for someone like the Russian. He was prepared to pay. “How much is thisbargain going to cost me?”
“Fifty million dollars per US weapon, and I’ll throw in the Tel Aviv weapon for free.”
“Ridiculous!” snapped Rehazi.
Yevgeny shrugged and started to stand up. “There are others—even neighbors of yours,” he explained casually wondering what Saddam Hussein would pay for the Tehran weapon.
Rehazi reached out and touched Yevgeny’s wrist. The Russian stared at the fingers and followed them back to their owner. He was about to become a very wealthy man.
Rehazi withdrew his hand. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily.”
“The Iraqis might even pay more,” suggested the Russian.
Rehazi considered his options. “How many weapons?”
“Ten,” replied the Russian flatly.
The air seemed to rush away from the Iranian. Ten weapons inside the United States! An untraceable deterrent force! The Islamic bomb already planted in the heart of the Great Satan! He could sell it to the Mullahs, especially if he had an extra one for Tel Aviv. Six hundred million dollars was almost reasonable when you thought about it. A hundred million in his own accounts for another day when he could disappear as well.
“Where?”
The Russian wagged his finger. “You can wonder and guess.” He settled back into his chair.
Rehazi considered the possibilities.
“Two hours,” explained the Russian. “I shall remain for two hours. After that I shall talk with the Iraqis.”
It actually took Rehazi three hours beforeall the money was transferred, and he left with a list of locations, codes, and explanations.
“If you’ve lied to me—” Began Rehazi as the Russian stood to leave.
Yevgeny snarled. “You’ll do nothing. There are others as well. It would do well for your masters to remember that.” With that, Yevgeny walked away. His half a billion dollars in a Swiss account was already dispersing throughout the world. It was time for a new life.
CHAPTER 8
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
January 10, 1993
Louis Edwards reluctantly closed the red striped file folder. As with all things, theBlackest of the Black had a beginning, a middle, and now, an end. The freewheeling days under Bill Casey were gone. The monolithic monster facing American intelligence since before the end of Hitler’s Germany lay broken and smoldering on history’s ash heap.
The Soviet Empire was a constantly splintering group of ethnic minorities, each reclaiming ancient homelands, languages, and traditions. The vaunted Red Army wondered where the next paycheck would come from. The powerful missiles were still in place and still targeted around the globe, but the critical maintenance needed to ensure a significant nuclear threat melted away like spring snow. The blue water navy lay in dry dock or mothballs—a victim of the Ruble’s crash and the end of the Soviet’s artificial economy.
No one wanted to hear the storm warnings regarding China or look too closely at the continuing nuclear program in North Korea. The president elect talked about converting the United States military into peacemakers. He quoted scripture concerning swords and plowshares. Somalia and the former Yugoslavia Republic were now important national issues. Gulf oil and nuclear bandits, the convenient boogie men to be brought out of their closets to scare up money for military and intelligence boondoggles, banished like a bad dream.
They even spoke of a peace dividend as if a mutual fund were paying off handsomely at the end of the year. The new leadership preferred to believe the dreaded KGB had gone the way of the Soviet Union rather than remake itself under a new title with the same policies. The concerns over unpaid Russian scientists and shoddy inventory control for chemical and nuclear weapons werepooh-poohed because Boris Yeltsin would take care of it. No one wanted to be bothered by the disturbing truth that Yeltsin managed a precarious balancing act between a fledgling democracy and a frustrated military machine.
The lesson of the last election was simple:It’s the economy—stupid! No one cared about peace, or the price peace required, or that peace was an anomaly in history. The word filtering down from the president elect’s transition team was that costs would be slashed—a shrinking defense budget was labeled bloated. Human intelligence is far too expensive, and after all, we proved we could fight a war from the living room sofa, on television, with the look and feel of a Nintendo game.
It was the same drivel that ushered in the Carter years—technology to replace people. Machines countedwhatever and formulated assumptions about someone’s motive. But, how do you track vials of biological agents or track the progress of a chemical weapons program from satellites in geo-synchronous orbit? How do you understand the inner workings of closed societies such as Iran’s Mullahs or Somali’s warlords? What technology can read a handwritten note carried by courier? Technology could provide empirical evidence, but intuitive analysis came from people, and people need diverse data sources to make the correct conclusions.
America remained impressed with the astounding victory in the Gulf. No one dared remind the new elite that it took a soldier on the ground with an infrared beacon to paint those targets so the SMART weapons could hit something. Yes, the Vietnam complex was shattered in the Gulf, and now America readied herself to once again make the same historical mistake and draw down her military resource in celebration.
Louis sighed and focused on the form next to the folder. He lifted the pen remembering the names and faces of those who died in a secret war to bring about this day. The law of unintended consequences asserted itself. Yes, the Soviet Empire was something to read about, and in fifty years it would be another tedious question in tenth grade history. Yes, the West won the Cold War. The policy of containment coupled with a technological arms race the Soviets could never win, finally crippled the closed economy and shattered the Russian Bear. But was it really dead or just grievously wounded? Yes, America was now the sole superpower, but had anyone learned the lesson about how quickly the other superpower had vanished?
Seventeen men and women remained of the original group. Of those still living, eleven were injured and confined to walkers, wheelchairs, or nursing homes. A meager handful drifted from military life to civilian life, and those were the ones Louis would keep half an eye on. The order he signed attached a special tracer to any identifying information in the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. The NCIC is a clearinghouse for seventy-one thousand law enforcement agencies nationwide. Standard Operating Procedure across the country brought most queries to NCIC sooner rather than later.
The second order he signed placed everyone’s dossier and Q file under a fifty-year seal. The Q files were the service records of Louis’s secret warriors. The fifty-year seal ensured that the documents would remain beyond the reach of the Freedom of Information Act and political operatives until close to the middle of the next century.
The third document ended a ten-year operation started in Bill Casey’s living room. Very few in the previous administrations knew about Louis’s activities, now no one in the new administration would have to bother. Sometimes it is better never to provide an asset that can be blatantly misused.
The last document initiated an electronic purge of all data banks. Jim Harper laughed at the idea. He explained about backups and tapes on tapes and interrelated sites. There were so many computers with stray data floating about, finding it all—much less eliminating it—was impossible. The obvious places would be hit, but things like local hard drives, archived backup tapes and hardcopy printouts would never be adequately policed. Harper was one of those seventeen released into the public—wolves prowling amongst the sheep.
